One morning, I opened the door to find her holding three large garbage bags of dirty laundry.
“My washing machine’s acting up again,” she said, pushing past me.
“The one you just bought six months ago?” I asked. “You said you’d fix it.”
“Oh, you know how these modern appliances are,” she waved it off.
Something felt off.
That night, I brought it up to Evan.
“Don’t you think it’s weird? Your mom showing up with laundry every week?”
He barely looked up. “Mom’s just being Mom.”
“This feels different,” I insisted. “She seems nervous.”
“Claire,” he sighed, “can we not overanalyze everything? It’s just laundry.”
But it didn’t stop.
Every week, like clockwork, she came. Sometimes even using the emergency key.
“Found more sheets that need washing?” I asked one day.
“Just a few things,” she said, but her hands were trembling.
I called Evan, frustrated. “Your mom’s here again. Third time this week.”
“I’m in a meeting.”
“She’s acting weird!”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” he snapped.
The truth finally came out one Friday.
I got home early and saw her car in the driveway. The washing machine hummed. I walked in quietly and found her frantically transferring linens.
“Marlene?”
“Claire! I didn’t expect you!” she gasped.
That’s when I saw it—a pillowcase with rusty red stains.
“What is that?”
“Nothing!” she said, reaching for it.
“Is that blood?” My voice shook. “Tell me the truth or I’m calling the police.”
“No! Please—I can explain!”
“Then explain!”
She collapsed onto the dryer.
“I’ve been… helping injured animals.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Strays,” she said, tears forming. “Cats, dogs… even a baby raccoon once. I find them at night, wrap them in towels, and take them to the emergency vet. Last night it was a puppy… he was hurt.”
